


Three of Swords

by tres_mechante



Category: Blood Ties
Genre: Blood Play, Kinks, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Dynamics, Seduction, pain play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:03:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tres_mechante/pseuds/tres_mechante
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The past intrudes on the present when Henry asks Mike for help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three of Swords

**Author's Note:**

> Written for April Fool's Mini-Round 2011.
> 
> I tried for quick and dirty, but for some reason Henry refused to cooperate...bossy vampire. The French dialogue is the result of vague recollections from high school French and the questionable reliability of google translation. Also, as a Canadian, some Canadian spellings have probably slipped through.

Henry watched from a safe distance while Mike locked the cursed medallion in the vault. Once the door was safely closed he went to set the lock.

 

"I don't see why you needed me to do this," said Mike, glancing around the room. "I thought you weren't really affected by cursed objects."

 

"Not usually, but some cursed objects are specifically created to influence the dead," said Henry as he set the lock and shooed Mike from the small room.

 

He'd had his doubts about inviting Mike Celluci, pain the ass extraordinaire, into his most sacred space, but he couldn't handle the artefact himself and Vicki would have made too much of even knowing about this place. Mike, on the other hand, was clueless about the significance of this inner sanctum and would likely think it nothing more than an oddity.

 

Henry watched Mike wander around the outer room, stopping every so often to study one of the objects on display. For the most part Mike looked unimpressed by the opulence and obvious worth of the many objects.

 

Mike glanced back at Henry, studying him. "You've never shied away from flaunting your wealth. Why are these things hidden away in a secret chamber outside the city?" He gaze sharpened and he walked to a glass case displaying two swords. "I'm thinking they aren't actually for show – personal mementos, maybe?"

 

Henry barely hid his surprise; maybe there was a reason Mike Celluci was a detective after all. He watched the way the man's attention kept coming back to the swords and made a decision. He went to the case and entered the code to open it.

 

"One time offer only, Celluci. Go ahead and touch."

 

Mike looked startled but did not argue or ask questions. To Henry's surprise, he by-passed the bejewelled one and reached for its less-decorative mate. Mike's touch was almost reverent and Henry shivered slightly as though those strong fingers had just trailed down his spine.

 

"They're called flukes," said Henry.

 

"What?" asked Mike, his fingers resting on the curved metal between blade and handle.

 

"The part you're touching, some people call them flukes," said Henry, moving closer to stand at Mike's side. "The curve looks a little like the flukes of a whale's tale."

 

Mike studied the metal with a small grin and Henry knew he could picture it.

 

Obeying another impulse, Henry reached into the case and took the sword from its resting place, handing it to Mike.

 

Mike grasped the hilt incorrectly, but his grip was firm. With a quick looked of surprise at Henry, he stepped back and hefted the sword. Henry smiled at the other man's obvious pleasure in handling such a well-balanced weapon.

 

A sudden draft sent a chill down Henry's spine, but Mike didn't seem to notice, caught up as he was in trying to wield the sword.

 

" _Mon prince veux jouer?_ " whispered an almost-forgotten voice.

 

Henry looked around but knew the voice's owner was not there; he'd been dead and buried for more than 400 years. Still, he couldn't help but whisper "Michel?"

 

" _Mon bien-aimé_ ," was the response.

 

" _Mon cœur…_ " breathed Henry.

 

"Did you say something, Henry?" asked Mike, turning to look at Henry.

 

He was suddenly overwhelmed by memories. Mike looked so much like Michel in that moment that he gasped.

 

Mike lowered his sword. "Are you alright? You look…spooked."

 

" _Non, je ne suis_ \- uh, I'm okay, I'm fine." He indicated the sword in Mike's hand. "You can't really get a feel for that in here. Let's go in the other room and you can take a few practice swings with it."

 

Once Mike's back was turned, he grabbed his own sword and followed. Over the next couple of hours, he guided Mike through a series of exercises to help him learn control of the weapon; Mike proved to be an apt pupil, almost as though he'd handled a sword before.

 

"I've always been fascinated by swords," said Mike as he gently lay the blade aside. He pulled a bottle of water from the backpack he'd used to carry the cursed medallion.

 

Henry continued to swing his sword in well-practiced movements.

 

Mike pulled off his shirt, distracting Henry with the expanse of skin over well-formed muscles. Without the barrier of cloth, he could feel the human's heat even more keenly.

 

"You know, I get why you'd want to protect that one," said Mike, nodding to Henry's sword, "But what's so special about this one? I mean, obviously it's not as valuable as yours."

 

"That's where you're wrong," said Henry. "It's not about the jewels – that's just decoration."

 

"So, what, sentimental value?" scoffed Mike.

 

Henry said nothing, merely adjusted his grip and swung the sword up in a deadly arc toward Mike. Without hesitation Mike dodged and grabbed his own weapon, raising it to block when Henry's sword once again arched toward him. The clang of steel echoed loudly in the room.

 

"Watch you're tone, Detective. Do not presume to know anything about me." With a vicious swipe of the blade, a line of liquid red oozed down Mike's chest.

 

Mike's features blurred as he stumbled back and a voice as insubstantial as a breath taunted, " _Au contraire, mon petit prince, je te connais très bien!_ "

 

" _Michel? Comment est-ce possible..._?" Henry backed off, confused. “That’s impossible.”

 

"Henry, you're a vampire – anything is possible," said Mike. He hesitated, his gaze fixed on Henry. "You look like you've seen a ghost?"

 

"Maybe I have." Henry shook his head slightly in an effort to clear his vision and dispel the enticing scent of Mike’s blood. He raised his sword and widened his stance. “Let’s see what you’ve learned.”

 

To his credit, Mike didn’t hesitate. He hefted his weapon and proceeded to give his all in mock battle.

 

The ring of steel on steel took on a hypnotic quality when combined with the almost unconscious rhythm of arc-block-attack-defend. Henry was lulled into an almost meditative state, recalling the first time he’d trained a man in the deadly art.

 

-+-

 

 _Michel was a French captive, a scholar promised to the priesthood, when he was brought before Henry. Tall and broad, fair-haired and stubborn, he refused to bow before his better, saying he would never worship a child of Hell._

 _Henry had been enchanted. Long-since bored with sycophants and grovelling dogs – not that they didn’t have their uses - Henry relished this new challenge._

 _Seduction was gradual, but by no means subtle. As Michel had been virtually caged for several weeks, he willingly embraced any and all freedoms, even if that mean being in the company of the monster who now owned him._

 _Every few nights, Michel was brought to the area where Henry practiced his swordsmanship. Occasionally, Henry sparred with members of his guard, while other times he used traitors for practice. Always, Michel stayed in the background, as far away as possible, but watchful. Henry found himself preening slightly under the lovely human's attention._

 _One night, Henry dismissed his entourage and called Michel to the practice platform. He tossed the surprised man a sword – wooden, of course – and proceeded to teach him to fight. The Frenchman always worked hard to learn and perfect the moves he was shown; Henry used that distraction to get close to him._

 _It started with touches to correct posture or grip, but quickly became much more. A gift of fine clothing became an invitation to practice shirtless so as to not soil the cloth. Handing him a towel after an intense session was replaced with Henry running a cool cloth over heated skin._

 _Hundreds of years after the fact, Henry could still taste the sweat gathered on the Frenchman’s chest. Michel proved to be quite the sensualist and had applied himself to the erotic arts as diligently as he did to the sword._

 _Few men could rival the bastard prince in swordsmanship, but the former scholar had come close, occasionally teasing Henry with explicit promises to gain the advantage before –_

 

-+-

 

The unmistakable burn of splitting flesh commanded his attention. Henry looked at his bicep in disbelief. Dark blood welled up through a nasty cut and began to run down his arm. He'd been so caught up in remembered passion that he'd forgotten to keep an eye on his current amusement.

 

Henry wasn’t sure whether to be proud of his student or pissed off at the gash to his arm. Before he could say anything however, a soft voice whispered in his ear, “ _Doucement, Henri._ ”

 

He warily lifted his gaze to Mike. The detective was grinning like an oversized golden retriever. There was no malice in his expression, merely pleasure at having bested his opponent.

 

He eyed Mike speculatively. Memories of playtime with Michel had left him aroused, and a little frustrated. Perhaps, with the right bait, he could have a new pet.

 

Henry held his arms out to the side and carefully dropped his sword. "I yield," he said, pleased at the surprise on Mike's face.

 

Mike backed off slightly but did not lower his weapon. "You yield. You?"

 

The human had promise, thought Henry. The question was whether that promise extended to other areas.

 

"I yield, my lord," said Henry, slowly dropping to his knees. He couldn't help but notice that he wasn't the only one aroused by battle. "What would you have me pay in forfeit?"

 

Mike was silent so long that he feared the man either did not understand the game or was simply uninterested. But then the man smiled the smile of a conqueror.

 

"A forfeit... well, that depends on whether the offer is genuine or just a ploy." He raised his sword once more and pressed the tip beneath Henry's chin and raising his head until their eyes met. "Or perhaps it doesn't really matter."

 

" _Je suis à votre merci_ ," he said, voice trembling slightly. He cleared his throat. "I am at--"

 

"My mercy, yeah, I got that." Mike shifted the sword until the blade's edge rested against the side of Henry's neck. "Beg for mercy."

 

Henry opened his mouth to beg, but Mike interrupted him. "Don't bother using words; I'm not interested," he said.

 

Cautiously, Henry raised his hands to touch – caress – the bulge in Mike's jeans. He could feel the heat and hardness though the denim and could feel himself panting, could actually hear his own rapid breaths. He chanced a glance upward and felt a flutter low in his own belly. Mike's eyes were dark with desire. Henry could smell the lust tinged ever so slightly with fear.

 

He returned his attention to Mike's crotch, intent on freeing his cock, getting closer – tasting him. There was something about the weight of a cock on his tongue that excited Henry to a near blood-lust frenzy. He tongued and kissed and suckled at the hardness, basking in the sounds being torn from Mike's soul.

 

But it wasn't enough. As much as he wanted – craved the bitterness seeping over his tongue and down his throat, Henry burned for something more. He pulled back until the tip of Mike's cock barely touched his lips and then looked up at Mike. The other man stared back at him, focused on Henry's mouth.

 

Henry opened his lips and tilted his head so that Mike could see his fangs. Mike's eyes widened and rather than decreasing, the smell of lust only intensified. Slowly, not wanting to scare Mike away, Henry carefully brought the head of that delicious cock into his mouth. He kept his lips pulled back so Mike could see the way the cockhead was bracketed by the fangs. Oh so carefully, he took more and more of Mike into his mouth and then pulled back slowly, grazing the length of Mike's cock with his fangs, leaving small beads of blood in his wake.

 

Mike's eyes rolled back in his head and he groaned out his approval, spilling semen down Henry's throat.

 

The sword at Henry's neck trembled and for one horrible moment, he thought Mike would behead him in the throes of orgasm. However, the blade steadied even as Mike continued to gasp and moan, clearly appreciating the touch of pain with his pleasure.

 

Henry hurriedly bobbed forward to collect the precious ruby drops along with the come, and it was his turn to moan his appreciation of this unexpected treat.

 

At that moment, a chill took hold and something cold trailed down his spine, circling around to his belly and finally caressing his groin. His own pants were still fastened, but he swore a mouth suckled at his cock. When a ghostly finger began teasing this anus, Henry lost it. He barely had the presence of mind to pull back from Mike's cock and the sword before he succumbed to his own orgasm.

 

The clang of metal brought his eyes open and he realized Mike had dropped his sword and fallen to his knees in front of Henry. Mike reached out one large hand and wrapped it around Henry's neck, drawing him in for a kiss. It was rough and hungry, but the strength of it, of Mike, was enough to draw a few more shudders of pleasure from Henry's body.

 

They leaned into one another for a while before pulling back. Henry freely admitted to feeling a bit uncertain of what would happen next. Mike was an unpredictable and occasionally prudish human.

 

Still panting, Mike gasped out, "Give me a minute to...catch my breath and...and we'll go...best two out of three."

 

"Are you sure about that?" asked Henry. "I doubt you'll win the next time."

 

Mike leaned back and flopped on the floor, dragging Henry with him. "You could be right," he said, much to Henry's disappointment.

 

Henry rolled away and sat up, intending to gather the weapons for cleaning as soon as he'd dismissed Mike.

 

Mike however, just stretched his body out, arms over his head as though they were bound there. He closed his eyes and murmured, "Well, I guess we'll just have to come up with another game."

 

 

~~FIN~~


End file.
